Homer · a new plain-English translation from the Greek
When Dawn came, rose-fingered and early-born, Odysseus's dear son rose from his bed. He put on his clothes, slung his sharp sword over his shoulder, bound fine sandals beneath his shining feet, and strode out of his chamber looking like a god. At once he told the clear-voiced heralds to summon the long-haired Achaeans to assembly. They cried the summons, and the people gathered quickly. When they had assembled and stood together, he went to the meeting-place, a bronze spear in his hand — not alone, for two sleek dogs trotted at his side. Athena poured a marvelous grace over him, and all the people stared as he came forward. He sat in his father's seat, and the elders made way for him.
Then the old hero Aegyptius rose to speak among them, a man bent double with age and full of years. His own dear son had gone with godlike Odysseus in the hollow ships to Troy of the fine horses — the spearman Antiphus, whom the savage Cyclops had killed in his hollow cave, making him the last of his meal. Three other sons the old man had: one, Eurynomus, kept company with the suitors, while the other two still worked their father's lands. Even so he never forgot the lost son, still grieving and mourning for him. Weeping, he now stood up to address the assembly, and said:
"Hear me now, men of Ithaca, and let me speak. Never once has our assembly met, never once have we sat in council, since godlike Odysseus sailed away in the hollow ships. Who has called us together now? What need presses so urgently, whether on some young man or on one of the older among us? Has he heard news of an army on the march, that he might tell us plainly, having learned of it first? Or is it some other public matter he wishes to declare and lay before us? Whatever it is, he seems to me a good man, and blessed. May Zeus bring to pass whatever good thing is in his heart!"
So he spoke, and Odysseus's dear son rejoiced at the words of good omen. He did not stay seated long, but rose eager to speak, and stood in the middle of the assembly. The herald Peisenor, skilled in wise counsel, put the staff into his hand. First he turned to the old man and addressed him:
"Old sir, the man is not far off — you will soon see for yourself — for it is I who called the people together. It is I whom grief has struck hardest. I have heard no news of an army on the march, to report to you plainly, having learned it first, nor is there any other public matter I mean to declare. It is my own private trouble, the double evil that has fallen on my house. First, I have lost my noble father, who once ruled among you here, and was as gentle as a father could be. And now comes a second, still greater trouble, one that will soon utterly destroy my household and consume my whole livelihood.
"Suitors beset my mother against her will — the very sons of the men who are foremost here. They shrink from going to the house of her father Icarius, so that he might himself set the bride-price for his daughter and give her to whomever he wishes, the man who pleases him. Instead they haunt our house day after day, slaughtering our cattle, our sheep, our fat goats, feasting and drinking our glowing wine without restraint, squandering it all. For there is no man here like Odysseus, to drive this ruin from the house. We ourselves are not equal to defending it —
we would only prove wretched and unpracticed in strength, even should we try. I would defend my house if only I had the power. But intolerable deeds are being done now, and my house is being destroyed shamefully. You yourselves should feel outrage at this, and shame before the neighboring peoples who dwell around us. Fear the anger of the gods, lest they turn in wrath against these wicked deeds. I beg you, by Olympian Zeus and by Themis, who dissolves and convenes the assemblies of men — hold back, my friends, and leave me alone with my bitter grief,
unless indeed my noble father Odysseus ever did some wrong to the armored Achaeans, for which you now take revenge on me by encouraging these men against me. It would be better for me if you yourselves were eating my stored goods and my livestock. If you consumed them, there might in time be some repayment — for then we could go about the city pressing our claim, demanding back our goods, until everything was restored. But as it is, you load my heart with pains I cannot resolve."
So he spoke in anger, and dashed the staff to the ground, bursting into tears; and pity seized the whole assembly. All the others sat in silence, and no one had the heart to answer Telemachus with harsh words. Only Antinous spoke up in reply:
"Telemachus, big talker, unrestrained in temper, what a thing to say, trying to shame us! You would fasten blame on us, but the suitors of the Achaeans are not the ones at fault here — it is your own dear mother, who is far too clever at scheming. It is now the third year, and soon the fourth will come, since she has been deceiving the hearts of the Achaeans in their chests.
"She gives every man hope, sends promises to each one separately, but her mind is set on other things. Here is the trick she devised in her heart: she set up a great loom in the hall and began weaving a large and delicate cloth, and said to us at once, 'Young men, my suitors, since noble Odysseus is dead, wait, eager as you are for my marriage, until I finish this cloth — I do not want my spinning wasted — a shroud for the hero Laertes, ready for the day when the deadly fate of grim death lays him low,
so that no woman of the Achaeans might reproach me if he who won so much should lie without a shroud.' So she spoke, and our proud hearts consented. Then by day she would weave the great web, but by night she would unravel it by torchlight. For three years her trick deceived the Achaeans and went undetected. But when the fourth year came round with its seasons, one of her women, who knew the truth, told us, and we caught her in the act of unraveling the shining cloth. So she was forced to finish it, against her will, under compulsion.
"Now this is the suitors' answer to you, so that you may know it in your own heart, and all the Achaeans may know it too: send your mother away, and tell her to marry whomever her father names and whoever pleases her. But if she goes on much longer tormenting the sons of the Achaeans, relying on the gifts Athena has given her beyond all women — skill in fine handwork, a keen mind, and cunning such as we have never heard of, even among the women of old,
the fair-haired women of Achaea long ago, Tyro, Alcmene, and crowned Mycene — not one of them had wits to equal Penelope's, though in this last matter she has not judged rightly. For as long as this scheme runs on, so long will your goods and your livelihood be eaten away, so long as she keeps to the purpose the gods now put in her heart. Great fame she is winning for herself, but for you, only the loss of your great livelihood. As for us, we will not go back to our own affairs, nor anywhere else, until she marries whichever of the Achaeans she wishes."
Then thoughtful Telemachus answered him: "Antinous, there is no way I can drive from my house the woman who bore me and reared me,
my mother — while my father is somewhere on the earth, alive or dead. And it would go hard for me to repay Icarius, if I sent my mother home of my own will. For I would suffer evils from her father, and the god would send yet more, since my mother, leaving the house, would call down the terrible Furies against me — and men, too, would hold it against me. So I will never speak that word. But if your own hearts feel any shame at this, then leave my halls, and go feast elsewhere, eating your own goods, trading turn and turn about among your own houses.
But if it seems to you better and more profitable to go on destroying one man's livelihood without payment, then go on despoiling it — but I will call upon the everlasting gods, in hope that Zeus may somehow grant that these deeds be repaid in kind. Then you would perish inside these halls unavenged."
So Telemachus spoke, and far-thundering Zeus sent two eagles flying down from a mountain peak above. For a while they flew on the wind's breath, side by side, wings spread wide; but when they reached the very middle of the crowded assembly,
they wheeled about, beating their wings rapidly, and looked down on all the heads below, foreboding death. Then, tearing at each other's cheeks and necks with their talons, they sped off to the right, over the houses and the city. The people were amazed when they saw the birds with their own eyes, and pondered in their hearts what this sign meant, what was fated to come. Then the old hero Halitherses, son of Mastor, spoke among them — he alone of his generation surpassed all others in reading birds and speaking of what was fated. With good will toward them he rose and said:
"Hear me now, men of Ithaca, and let me speak — and to the suitors especially I declare this: a great disaster is rolling down upon them. For Odysseus will not be long away from his own people — indeed he is already near, and is sowing death and doom for these men, all of them. And it will bring trouble too for many others of us who live in clear-seen Ithaca. So let us think, well before it comes, how we may stop this, or rather let them stop themselves — that would be better for them, and soon. For I do not prophesy without experience, but with sure knowledge.
I say that all has come to pass for Odysseus just as I foretold when the Argives set sail for Troy, and cunning Odysseus went with them. I said that after suffering many evils and losing all his companions, unknown to everyone, he would come home in the twentieth year — and now all of this is coming true." Then Eurymachus, son of Polybus, answered him in turn: "Old man, go home now and prophesy to your own children, in case they suffer some harm hereafter.
As for this, I am far better at prophecy than you. Many birds fly about beneath the sun's rays, and not all of them mean anything. Odysseus has perished far away — you should have died along with him! Then you would not be uttering all these prophecies, nor stirring up Telemachus, already so angry, hoping for a gift for your own house, if he should give one. But I tell you this plainly, and it will indeed come to pass: if you, knowing many old things, lead this younger man astray with your words and provoke him to anger,
it will go worse for him first of all — nothing will come of it because of us — and as for you, old man, we will lay a fine on you, one that will grieve your heart to pay, and it will be a bitter pain for you. As for Telemachus, I myself will advise him before you all: let him tell his mother to go back to her father's house. Her family will arrange the marriage and prepare the bride-gifts in plenty, as many as is fitting to accompany a beloved daughter. For I do not think the sons of the Achaeans will give up their difficult courtship before then, since we fear no one at all —
certainly not Telemachus, for all his fine speeches — nor do we pay any heed to your prophecy, old man, which you utter in vain, only making yourself more hated. His goods will go on being eaten up wastefully, and there will be no repayment, so long as she keeps the Achaeans waiting over her marriage. We ourselves, waiting day after day, keep contending over her excellence, and go seeking no other women whom each of us might properly marry." Then thoughtful Telemachus answered him: "Eurymachus, and the rest of you proud suitors, I will no longer plead with you or speak of this.
The gods already know it, and all the Achaeans too. But come, give me a swift ship and twenty companions, who will help me complete a voyage there and back. For I mean to go to Sparta and to sandy Pylos, to ask after my father's return, so long delayed — in case some mortal can tell me, or I may hear some rumor from Zeus, which most of all carries word to men. If I hear that my father lives and is coming home, then, worn as I am, I could still endure one more year. But if I hear that he is dead and gone,
then I will return to my own dear native land, build him a grave-mound, and give him all the funeral rites that are fitting, as many as befit him, and give my mother to a husband." Having spoken so, he sat down, and among them rose Mentor, who had been the companion of noble Odysseus, and to whom, when he sailed with the ships, Odysseus had entrusted his whole household, bidding it obey the old man and keep everything safe. With good will toward them he rose and spoke:
"Hear me now, men of Ithaca, and let me speak. Let no sceptered king any longer be truly kind and gentle in heart, or mindful of what is right —
let him instead always be harsh and do lawless deeds — since not one of the people whom godlike Odysseus once ruled remembers him now, though he was as gentle as a father. And yet I do not so much blame the overbearing suitors for doing violent deeds out of their wicked scheming — for they risk their own necks when they violently devour Odysseus's household, saying he will never return. What angers me now is the rest of you, the people — how you all sit in silence, and do not so much as speak out and rein in
the suitors, few as they are against your many numbers." Then Leocritus, son of Evenor, answered him: "Mentor, reckless one, unsound of mind, what have you said, urging them to stop us? It is hard, even for more numerous men, to fight over a feast. Even if Odysseus of Ithaca himself should come and find us, the proud suitors, feasting in his hall, and set his heart on driving us from his palace,
his wife would take no joy in his return, much as she longs for him — instead he would meet an ugly death right there, if he tried to fight against so many. What you have said is not fitting. But come, let the people scatter, each to his own work; Mentor and Halitherses will speed this young man's journey — they have been his father's friends from the beginning. Yet I think he will sit here a long while yet, gathering news, and will never complete this voyage."
So he spoke, and broke up the assembly in haste. The people scattered, each to his own house, and the suitors went off to the house of godlike Odysseus. But Telemachus walked apart, down to the shore of the sea.
There he washed his hands in the gray salt water and prayed to Athena: "Hear me, you who came yesterday as a god to our house, and bade me sail over the misty sea in a ship to learn of my father's return, so long delayed. But the Achaeans are hindering all of this, the suitors most of all, in their wicked arrogance." So he prayed, and Athena came near to him, taking the likeness of Mentor in form and voice, and speaking winged words she said to him: "Telemachus, you will not turn out cowardly or foolish hereafter,
if truly your father's noble spirit has been instilled in you — such a man was he at accomplishing both deed and word. Then this journey of yours will not be in vain or unfulfilled. But if you are not the true son of that man and of Penelope, then I have no hope that you will accomplish what you now intend. Few sons indeed turn out equal to their fathers; most are worse, and only a few better. But since you will not turn out cowardly or foolish hereafter, and since Odysseus's cunning has not utterly deserted you, there is good hope that you will bring these things to pass.
So now, put aside the plans and purposes of the suitors, senseless and unjust men that they are, for they know nothing of the death and black doom that is close upon them, fated to destroy them all in a single day. As for your own voyage, it will not be long delayed now, since you desire it so. I am your father's old comrade, and I will fit out a swift ship for you and come along myself. But go now to the house and mingle with the suitors; prepare provisions and stow everything in vessels — wine in jars, and barley meal, the marrow of men,
in stout skins — while I go through the town and quickly gather willing companions. There are many ships in sea-girt Ithaca, new and old alike; I will look them over and choose whichever is best, and we will make her ready and launch her swiftly onto the broad sea." So spoke Athena, daughter of Zeus, and Telemachus did not linger long once he had heard the goddess's voice. He went toward the house, his heart heavy with grief, and found the proud suitors there in the hall, skinning goats and singeing fattened pigs in the courtyard.
Antinous came straight toward Telemachus, laughing, and gripped his hand and spoke, calling him by name: "Telemachus, loud talker, temper unchecked, don't let any other ugly deed or word take root in your chest. Just eat and drink with us, as you always have. The Achaeans will see to all of this for you soon enough — a ship and picked oarsmen — so you can get to holy Pylos faster and ask after news of your noble father."
Telemachus, keeping his head, answered him: "Antinous, there's no way I can sit quietly at your table and enjoy myself among men so full of themselves, at ease. Isn't it enough that you suitors have already stripped away so much of my fine property, back when I was still a child? Now that I've grown, and I listen to what others say, and I understand it, and now that my spirit is swelling inside me, I'm going to try to bring down a bad fate on you, whether I go to Pylos or find the means right here in this land. I am going, and the journey I speak of won't be wasted, even as a passenger — since I own no ship of my own, nor any crew. That, I suppose, is exactly how you'd prefer it."
So he spoke, and pulled his hand free from Antinous's grip, easily. Meanwhile the suitors went on preparing their feast through the house, mocking him and jeering with cutting words. And one of the arrogant young men would say something like this:
"Telemachus is really plotting our murder now! He'll bring back help from sandy Pylos, or maybe even from Sparta, since he's burning to go so badly. Or else he means to go to Ephyra, that rich farmland, to fetch back deadly poison from there, to drop into the mixing bowl and kill every one of us."
And another of the arrogant young men would answer: "Who knows — maybe he'll wander off himself in a hollow ship, far from his friends, and die lost just like Odysseus. That would only pile more work on us — we'd get to divide up all his property, and we'd give the house itself to his mother, to keep, along with whoever marries her."
So they talked. But Telemachus went down into his father's high-roofed storeroom, a wide chamber where gold and bronze lay piled up, and clothing in chests, and abundant fragrant oil. There too stood jars of old, sweet wine, holding the pure, god-given drink inside, ranged in a row against the wall, in case Odysseus should ever come home again, after all his hard suffering. The doors were fastened shut with double-folded, close-fitted planks, and a woman, the housekeeper, held watch there night and day — Eurycleia, daughter of Ops son of Peisenor, who guarded everything with the shrewdness of her mind.
Telemachus called her then into the storeroom and said to her: "Nurse, come now, draw off wine for me into jars — the sweetest kind, the finest after the one you're keeping in reserve for that unlucky man, in case he should ever come back from somewhere, god-born Odysseus, having escaped death and doom. Fill twelve jars and seal every one with lids. And pour barley meal for me into well-stitched skins — let there be twenty measures of ground barley meal. Keep this to yourself alone; let it all be gathered together. I'll come for it myself this evening, once my mother has gone up to her room and turns her thoughts to sleep. For I am going to Sparta and to sandy Pylos, to ask after my dear father's homecoming, in case I hear anything."
So he spoke, and his beloved nurse Eurycleia burst into a wail, and grieving she spoke to him in winged words: "Why, dear child, has this thought come into your mind? Where do you want to go, over so much land, you who are our only beloved son? He has perished far from his homeland, god-born Odysseus, in some land of strangers. And these men, the moment you're gone, will plot evil against you for later, so that you'll die by treachery, and they'll divide up everything you own among themselves. No — stay here among your own people. There is no need for you to suffer hardship wandering over the barren sea."
Telemachus, keeping his head, answered her: "Take heart, nurse — this plan of mine isn't without a god behind it. But swear to me you won't tell my dear mother this, not until the eleventh or twelfth day comes, or until she misses me herself and hears that I've gone — so that she won't spoil her lovely skin with weeping."
So he spoke, and the old woman swore a great oath by the gods. And when she had sworn and finished the oath, she drew off wine for him at once into the jars, and poured barley meal into well-stitched skins. Then Telemachus went back into the house and mingled with the suitors.
Meanwhile the bright-eyed goddess Athena thought of something else. Taking the shape of Telemachus, she went everywhere through the city, and stopping beside each man she spoke to him, telling them to gather that evening at the swift ship. She went, too, to Noemon, the shining son of Phronius, and asked him for a swift ship — and he readily agreed. The sun set, and all the streets grew shadowed, and then she drew the swift ship down to the sea and loaded into it all the gear that well-benched ships carry.
She moored it at the harbor's edge, where the loyal crew gathered together, and the goddess roused each one on. Then the bright-eyed goddess Athena thought of yet another thing. She went to the house of godlike Odysseus, and there she poured sweet sleep over the suitors, scattered their drinking, and knocked the cups from their hands. They rose to go to bed throughout the city, and did not sit long, since sleep was falling on their eyelids.
Then the bright-eyed Athena called Telemachus out from the well-built hall, taking the shape and voice of Mentor: "Telemachus, your well-greaved companions are already sitting at the oars, waiting for you to give the signal to set out. Come, let's go — we shouldn't delay the journey any longer."
So speaking, Pallas Athena led the way quickly, and he followed in the goddess's footsteps. When they came down to the ship and the sea, they found their long-haired crew waiting on the shore. The strong and holy Telemachus spoke among them: "Come, friends, let's bring the supplies aboard — everything is already gathered in the hall. My mother knows nothing of this, nor do the other maids; only one heard what I planned."
So speaking he led the way, and they followed with him. They carried everything and stowed it aboard the well-benched ship, just as the beloved son of Odysseus had ordered. Telemachus climbed aboard the ship, and Athena went first, and sat down in the stern of the ship, and Telemachus sat close beside her. The crew loosed the stern cables, climbed aboard themselves, and took their seats at the benches.
Bright-eyed Athena sent them a favoring wind, a fresh west wind, singing over the wine-dark sea. Telemachus called out to his crew, urging them to lay hold of the rigging, and they heard his call and obeyed. They raised the pine mast and set it upright in its hollow socket, lashed it fast with forestays, and hauled up the white sail with well-twisted oxhide ropes. The wind filled the sail's belly, and the dark wave roared loudly around the stem as the ship went on her way; she ran skimming over the waves, cutting her course.
When they had made the gear fast throughout the swift black ship, they set up mixing bowls and filled them to the brim with wine, and poured libations to the deathless gods who live forever, and above all to the bright-eyed daughter of Zeus. All night long and into the dawn the ship cut her way through the sea.